This Little Piggy (16 page)

Finn McKenna was making his way to the bar, where Clare noticed that the men slapped him on the back, shook his hand and offered to buy him a pint. They may have been loyal to George Armstrong but McKenna was the new man of the moment. He spotted them and came over, the foam from his pint trickling slowly down the side of his glass.

“Oh, look, it’s the enemy within,” Clare said, and McKenna grinned at her.

“I’m thinking of getting that on a T-shirt. Thatcher hasn’t done herself any favours with that remark. It’s put people more on our side, if anything.” He and Joe gave each other a brief and not entirely friendly nod. Then he pulled up a stool. “I’m glad I ran into you, Clare. I called you earlier, but you were out. Something you might be interested in.”

“Go on.” Clare was conscious of Joe watching them closely.

“A concert to raise money for the strike. Thursday night at the City Hall. Two bands and a couple of comedians. I’ve got you a ticket, thought we could both go along.”

“Thursday night? Yep. Sounds great.”

“Brilliant. Seven-thirty. Shall I just see you outside?”

“I’ll be there. Thanks.”

Finn stood up and looked towards the bar. “Better get back to the lads.” He winked at Clare.

Clare cast around for something to say. “This used to be George Armstrong’s pub. He stays away now, I’ve noticed.”

Joe gave a grunt.

Clare fished the lemon slice out of her drink again and started chewing the edge of it, waiting for Joe to say something. There were a few moments of strained silence. Then he said: “Are you seeing Finn McKenna? As in, are you going out with him?”

Clare raised her eyebrows at Joe. “No. Well, not exactly, not entirely.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I’ve had lunch with him, once, and he’s just asked me to go to a gig with him, but I don’t know whether that’s a date. He might just want to get some good press coverage.”

“Sounded like a date to me.” Joe glared down at his pint. “And you knew about him being arrested, at the weekend. You never even gave me a hint about that.”

“What if it is a date?”

“I don’t trust him. There’s something not right about him. He’s being questioned by the police. And…”

“What are you, my dad, all of a sudden? What’s it to you who I go out with?”

“Well…” Joe raised his eyebrows and for a moment, Clare wondered exactly what he was going to say. Then he seemed to think better of it. “It’s just… okay. Maybe it’s the same thing as I was saying about that little kid.

“You’re getting way too close to your stories, you’re getting personally involved with the people that you should be keeping at arm’s length. It’ll stop you being detached when you write. If you start seeing Finn McKenna out of work, you won’t want to write anything critical about the strike. And then if the whole romance crap goes wrong, you won’t even want to talk to him for a quote when you need to. It’s got disaster written all over it.”

“Okay, you’ve made your point. Now can you let me make my own decisions?”

Back at the flat, fired up by a couple of gins, Clare made herself go into the little box room again. She’d got as far as putting some of her unwanted purchases into black bin bags, waiting for the charity to come and collect them. She pushed the heavy bin bags into the middle of the floor so that she didn’t have to look at the stain on the carpet.

Something made her take the next step. She used the back of a spoon to prise open the first tin of emulsion paint. The clean smell took her by surprise. It’d been a long time since she’d smelled anything so fresh, or that said ‘new start’ quite so clearly. The thick paint made a satisfying glooping sound as she poured it into the tray, its texture reminding her of Amy’s melting ice-cream. She’d also forgotten how satisfying the process of painting something as simple as a wall could be. Most of it was covered in minutes, a shade of white with a hint of pink, the latest decorating fad. The freshly painted wall made her think of a new page in her notebook, of 1st January. And of a newborn baby. But she pushed that image away. Compared to the faded colours of the rest of the room, the wall’s brightness made her blink. And smile.

Tuesday 24th July
The day didn’t get off to a good start for Clare when she called in to find that Dave Bell was on leave and it was Sharon Catt waiting to take her news list.

“Okay, well, to start with, there’s the opening of the inquest into Debs Donnelly, down at the coroner’s court this morning. I’m expecting that…”

“We’ve got Chris Barber down to do the inquest.”

“How come?”

“Because we have. It’s the biggest story of the day and he’s our chief reporter.”

“I’m not likely to forget that, Sharon. But this is supposed to be my patch. And actually, I don’t think…”

“Clare, I don’t have time to argue with some prima donna reporter who thinks she should get the splash every single day. What else have you got?”

Clare decided not to tell Catt that it was quite likely the inquest would be opened but go no further, meaning there wouldn’t be a lot to say. Her diary also read:
Police protestors up in court?
She decided not to mention that. The coroner’s court and the magistrates’ courts were in the same building and she didn’t want Barber to get that story too. “Umm, otherwise it’s looking a bit quiet. Tell you what, Sharon, I’ll have a dig around and come back to you in an hour or so.” Then she headed for the car and drove to court.

Around ten men and women were standing in a small huddle outside in the car park, smoking. Clare recognised some of them from the protest. The usher directed her into Court One, where Geoff Powburn was sitting, just in front of the press bench. He swivelled round to chat. “How’s your social worker training going?”

“Eh?” Clare gave him a baffled smile.

“The last time we spoke you were worried about some child that was being neglected?”

“Oh. That. No, everything’s fine now. You expecting much here?”

Geoff nodded. “I am, as a matter of fact. Word is the magistrates are going to come down hard on these protestors. Make an example of them and stave off any more trouble from Sweetmeadows. And if they do, there’ll be problems, because some of them are strikers and no way have they got money for a big fine.”

As the magistrates came in, Clare recognised two local councillors on the bench, who were well-known for taking a tough stance when they sat in court. She sat with her pen at the ready. These two were unlikely to be sympathetic to anyone accused of causing an affray. Nor were they disposed to be in favour of the miners’ strike.

Sure enough, the magistrates refused to agree to the group being bound over to keep the peace. Instead, they heard charges of violent disorder and suggested the maximum possible fine, to be paid back at a high weekly rate. There were little gasps from the defendants and their friends and family in the public seats, and one of the magistrates told everyone to be quiet.

The hapless duty lawyer stood up. “Your worships, all of the defendants are currently not working and are struggling financially. The defendants Wilson, Cook and George are miners and you will be aware of their present situation, in that they are on strike and not currently earning a wage…”

“Perhaps they might consider going back to work,” a magistrate commented, to an audible intake of breath from members of the public.

The duty lawyer didn’t comment on this. He continued, “Mrs Johnson is a single mother of two children and owing to a dispute with the Department of Health and Social Security, she has received no benefits for two weeks…”

“If the defendants are saying they are unable to meet a fine then the other option available to the bench is a short prison sentence,” said one of the magistrates, as the clerk, sitting in front of the bench, visibly cringed and stared down at his law books.

The people in the public seats started to whisper amongst themselves. The magistrate smacked the desk. “If there is any more disorder in the court I will ask that you all be charged with contempt.”

In the end, three of the eight were given two-month jail sentences and were taken down into the police cells with bewildered expressions on their faces. The others agreed to heavy fines and Clare guessed it would only be a week or two before they were back in the dock for non-payment. Everyone stood up as the magistrates filed out of court. Geoff Powburn swivelled round to look at Clare and gave a little whistle. “What did I tell you?”

Clare shook her head. “Unbelievable. I don’t see the sense in that, to be honest.”

It was at that point that Joe appeared at the court room door. “You’re here. Thank god for that. I’ve just wasted an hour sitting in an inquest and it’s going to make the grand total of two pars of copy. And I’ve missed the protestors.”

“You certainly have.” Clare looked past him. “Chris Barber isn’t on your tail, is he?”

“He didn’t know about this so I damn well wasn’t going to tell him. If it makes you feel any better, the whole thing took ages because the coroner dealt with a whole load of admin first. And then it was only opened and adjourned because they haven’t got a full pathologist’s report. So he’ll hardly get anything out of it at all. Certainly not a big enough piece for a by-line.”

Clare grinned. “Excellent. Come and listen while I phone the story in, and you can take it all down. Then we’ll go get some reaction down at Sweetmeadows.”

On the estate, Clare felt she could almost taste the worsening mood. Clusters of people were standing around talking, with grim expressions on their faces. She overheard a small group of young teenagers complaining about ‘fascist pigs’.

A woman came up and jabbed a finger at Clare and Joe. “You want to write something about the way this estate’s been written off. No one’s listening to us. There are kids round here who can’t sleep at night because some psycho’s on the loose. The coppers say we all know who killed the bairn but that we’re not saying. It’s a lie. They just think we’re scum.”

“That’s right.” Another woman joined her. “My brother-in-law’s just been sent down, all because we went to tell the police what we thought of them. My sister’s in bits. And in the meantime someone who’s killed a kiddie is still wandering the streets. Our streets.”

“That’s the trouble with living here,” the first woman went on. “You get branded. If it was some posh couple’s baby, the police wouldn’t drive the mother to her grave by making out it was her that did it. And if anyone else complains about the police they have to sit up and take notice. But when it’s Sweetmeadows, it’s just, oh, it’s that lot again. They call us swine and treat us like rubbish. Bastards.”

Clare and Joe were soon surrounded by people, shouting about how badly they’d been treated, how the investigation was a joke, how the fines and prison sentences were unfair. They could barely take notes fast enough. Afterwards, with pages of hurried shorthand to compare, they headed for Joe’s car. Clare sat back and took a deep breath. “Wow. That was quite some reaction.
Fury on the ‘Forgotten’ Estate
.”

“Let’s get it written up. I’ll buy you a drink. I promise not to tell you how to live your life this time.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“I’m sorry.” Joe gave an embarrassed smile. “It’s just that you haven’t seemed yourself, for ages now. You always look a bit, I don’t know, strained.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“Sorry. Did I say strained? I meant gorgeous.”

Clare smacked Joe on the thigh. “Stop that right now.”

“But still strained,” he went on. “You’ve been working too hard, I reckon, and I totally understand it. It’s because you want to prove they made a mistake in not giving you that job. But I think you’re over-tired and not always making the best decisions. That’s all.”

Clare put her hand on the car door. “What happened to ‘I won’t tell you how to live your life’? It took you about thirty seconds to break that promise.”

Joe screwed up his face. “Damn. Sorry again. I will shut up now, honest.”

“Okay. I mean it. You’re a good mate, but if you tell me once more that I look like hell or that I’m losing my mind, I will find someone else to go drinking with.”

“Like Finn McKenna?”

Clare swore. “You can’t leave it alone, can you?” She pushed the car door open. “I’ve had it, Joe. Come and see me when you’ve remembered that I’m all grown up and I don’t need a minder.”

“Sorry!” Joe leaned out of the car and tried to persuade her to get back in. But she strode off towards the office.

“Another front page,” Jai commented as she walked into the shop. “I don’t think you ever stop working.”

“Yeah?” Clare picked up the evening paper and smiled as she read her by-line. The report continued onto Page Three, where a small sidebar mentioned that an inquest had been opened into the death of Deborah Donnelly, the mother of murdered baby Jamie. “Two whole sentences on the inquest. Great morning’s work for a chief reporter.”

She took great pleasure in ringing Sharon Catt. “I’ve got some brilliant reaction to the court sentences. The people on the estate are really angry.”

“Get it sent over, then.” Catt didn’t sound as pleased as a duty news editor should sound, when they’ve just been offered a lead story.

“I’m about to. I just wanted to give you a heads-up.” Clare paused for a moment. “Not much came out of the inquest, then. Bit of a waste of Chris’s time.”

There was a second’s silence on the end of the phone. Clare pictured Catt gritting her teeth.

“Don’t gloat, Clare. I wish you’d start acting more professionally.”

“Professionally? Sharon, you sent me out to a district office and you knew I didn’t want to go. But ever since, I’ve worked really hard. I come in every day and sometimes at nights and weekends and I never complain about it. How is that unprofessional?”

“You’re still resentful about not getting the chief reporter’s job, that’s obvious. Even though you didn’t turn up on the day of the interview and didn’t even bother to give us a call. For days, remember? We had to send Dave Bell round to bang on your door to make sure you weren’t dead. And then we got some pathetic story about having a virus. Talk about ‘the dog ate my homework’. You might be able to bat your lashes at Dave and the other men in the office, but you’ve got some way to go before I think of you as professional. And you’ve only got yourself to blame, so stop trying to make Chris Barber into Public Enemy Number One.”